Welcome to Adventu, your final fantasy rp haven. adventu focuses on both canon and original characters from different worlds and timelines that have all been pulled to the world of zephon: a familiar final fantasy-styled land where all adventurers will fight, explore, and make new personal connections.
at adventu, we believe that colorful story and plots far outweigh the need for a battle system. rp should be about the writing, the fun, and the creativity. you will see that the only system on our site is the encouragement to create amazing adventures with other members. welcome to adventu... how will you arrive?
year 5, quarter 3
Welcome one and all to our beautiful new skin! This marks the visual era of Adventu 4.0, our 4th and by far best design we've had. 3.0 suited our needs for a very long time, but as things are evolving around the site (and all for the better thanks to all of you), it was time for a new, sleek change. The Resource Site celebrity Pharaoh Leep was the amazing mastermind behind this with minor collaborations from your resident moogle. It's one-of-a-kind and suited specifically for Adventu. Click the image for a super easy new skin guide for a visual tour!
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The patter of leather boots down rain trodden cobblestone was all that could be heard in his ears; the downpour was fierce for this time of the year. Though he supposed it couldn’t be helped, spring was here as were her showers. T’was a fine relief from the bitter winter that had tried his endurance, tested his resourcefulness regarding his finances. There were some challenges along the way yet he was never deterred. His employer met a pair of seasons ago now had ensured he wouldn’t go into the poor house, nor wind up like his uncle and be forced to return to life as a metallurgist in another aqueduct forge. Damned if he wasn’t grateful for this stranger and his endless hunt, even if the bloody errands had become just as trying on his nerves and sleep at night. Though at least he went without the burns and scalding skin, for that he was also thankful.
Moreau coughed into a fist, the fog of his breath venting out into the cold as he continued to brave the rain. The heat from all the factories and distilleries on this end of the city gave more weight to the likelihood of fog, making it hard to see in a shower like this. Lamps lit by fire crystals did their best to light the path, but there was no hope for a tourist on these streets, not in this weather. Only locals and the brave ventured here. He had lived in Torensten all his forty-six years, never once had he gotten lost in any of her boroughs, never strayed about her ports. Though today he was certain such a thing had almost happened. He squinted from beneath the tattered, soaked hood of the leather coat he wore, raising a hand to shield the rain from his brow as he skimmed the various shop signs above. They protested the wind with metallic creaks on their iron bars, wooden letters and the images below them so damp they were barely discernible. Though sure enough there it was, tucked among the other various signs pointing to tradecrafts and bazaars, there blew The Dirty Sail.
The windows to this pub were dirtied, but the warm glow spied through them told the traveler they were still open. It didn’t matter to him whether or not they were, as this place had grown to feel like a third, maybe fourth home to man like Moreau. A man who frequented the places who appreciated a connoisseur such as he, and only a few locales in Torensten were in possession of what he needed to sate his palette. It made a fine place to lie low to conduct the sort of dealings his employer held a particular fondness to. These type of contracts and work were usually not his goblet of preference as to say, yet he never found it curious how often blood mixed with wine. The batwing doors were pushed open lazily, as Moreau pushed off the hood to eye the interior of the tavern. Wasn’t by any means his favorite place, but they were known to carry a decent rye when the itch for whiskey struck his fancy. A small crowd met observation, and at the back sitting at the usual table was the large man with blond hair.
He sat alone, as was customary to his preference. For an unexplained reason he had always chosen to do this, finding little joy or revel in the company in other patrons of the tavern. Moreau crossed the establishment lazily, taking his time to briefly give some acquaintances a wave, a nod, even a slap on the shoulder with a merrily, but slogged chuckle or two. The floorboards creaked involuntarily when he passed through the crowds. The breath in his chest grew tense with a degree of anxiety as he approached the darkened back room before an array of drizzle ridden bay windows. The fire crystal upon the center of the table licked at the room, the orange glow of its artifice granting a mask of warmth over the Garlean. To Moreau he seemed to be lazily examining the red and black sword he had always carried, to the right of the man’s seat the other pair rested within that weird revolving scabbard of his. The man’s face rested his jaw against a fist, where his other hand rolled the blade over and over within the artificial firelight, cold blue eyes fixated upon the blade as though it were the only thing that mattered in his world. It was almost unsettling the way he looked at the thing, with an air of nostalgia toward something...or someone. Moreau wouldn’t dare to interrupt the moment, not intentionally, but his arrival at the threshold to this room had done enough on his behalf.
”Do you intend to gawk at me all evening? Or am I to assume you’ve brought something of merit to my time?”
The blue eyes snapped from Ame-no-habakiri to the pair of amber still fixated upon him, just before Zenos would sit up to twirl the blade, returning it to its rightful place amongst the others. Following the metallic click of the scabbard, Moreau stepped forward, confident that his tovar was in a tolerable mood this evening. If things permitted the way he had envisioned them on the walk here, the air in his spirits were sure to lift when he finally gave him the news. ”Aye mon tovar,” he offered assurance as he spun the nearest chair on a leg, turning it to sit with a lean over the back. The man’s accent as thick as Zenos recalled their prior meeting. ”It wasn’t an easily acquired bit of information to come by. Not a commonly known group these Scions you mentioned, nor some o’ these descriptions we had to go by.” He took it upon himself to fill the neglected goblet that sat upon the table, then rotated it several times as he let the wine have a good vent. He scoffed as the taste was bitter, bordering sour, but it was still a better year than what the heathen barkeep was choosing to deign “good wine” on so disparate an evening.
A hearty swallow when his meandering with the beverage subsided.
”You are a lucky man Galvus, perhaps The Devil himself. For there are not many who can contact them, much less one to find the information about this warrior you seek. Maybe they favor this hunt of yours, for all the trouble this man’s friends have caused them.”
There was an elation to Zenos’ brow, his curiosity piqued by an allure of promise, the potential that a day long awaited may very well be close at hand.
”I would expect nothing less of them.”
Moreau couldn’t help but gaze upon the Garlean with an air most inquisitive, still puzzled as to the man’s interest in these individuals. He didn’t know anything about them, save that Zenos held no desire greater than to meet with them again. The way he had spoken about them gave Moreau the impression they were old friends, tovar, or maybe even family. He could understand the longing to see loved ones again, he had suffered such emotions at the hands of his Sonoran captors some years past, but this was entirely different. The way he seemed to obsess over these individuals, the tenacity of his desire to uncover their whereabouts, it was more palpable than a northerner’s hate of the outlanders. For months he had gone along with little insight to just whom these people were to Zenos, and for months he had not bothering to inquire further. It was time he felt the need to ask.
”I can’t help wonder if this crusade you wage is one of vengeance, mon tovar. I must advise such sport is oft bad for business, certainly where Torensten is concerned.”
A deep chuckle would emit from the taller man’s breast, whilst he rose to approach the bay windows, the vagueness of his reflection growing in clarity to meet him. Zenos gaze out upon the drowning streets, the rivers which flooded the moated ditches that struggled to contain them. There in the seconds betwixt lightning and thunder beyond the pane, the once Crown Prince did consider the moments that had led to this evening. The drawn-out days under an Ala Mhigan sun, the sleepless nights under a Garlean moon. Each more unfulfilling than what came before, each leaving him to ever hunger for more in the emptiness of this life. How long had each of them been? How many had he spent nostalgic for that fleeting joy which had ever eluded his grasp? The smile upon the reflection in the storm grew as he recalled that day in Doma, where the realization of a worthy adversary had finally dawned on him. How right he was to spare their lives.
”Is there a moment in your life worth reliving, Moreau?”
The question was a curious one, deep enough in fact that it would leave the other man in silence long enough to ponder its meaning to him. It was rhetorical in the Garlean’s eyes, for he knew there was little comparison to the joy he had lived. Nothing this connoisseur had experienced in his miserable existence that could hold a candle to the euphoria that remained etched within his memory. The heightened tension of the waged stakes, the rush of blood pumping through his veins with every swing of his blade, the pure exhilaration that consumed him for every time second exchanged blows; the very fabrication of transcendence made manifest.
”To believe this of such a contestation, you are fool. No, this is so much more than a petty grudge.” Zenos would look down to widespread fingers, then ball them into a fist which cause the leather under the armor to give the faintest of strains. He would lower it to turn in full, gazing down upon the native as he would any other lesser race of his home world, eyes filled with contempt and disappointment. Moreau would simply scoff at the remark, and continue about with his wine. Zenos couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at this, discontent to leave this or anyone to continue to believe his life’s greatest ambition naught more than a fleeting, final fantasy.
”To look once more upon the catalyst of one’s own purpose, a man should be willing to give anything. Sweat, blood, tears, one’s own very life if the demand be great enough. Know there is nothing in this empty, ephemeral world I wouldn’t sacrifice to ensure such a moment again comes to pass.”
Moreau would nod solemnly as he listened, sipping his sour merlot as though he believed every word the Garlean spoke his peace. If anything, he was very touchy about the subject, which was probably good reason why he never asked before. He still remained unconvinced this vendetta wasn’t about a rival or some old feud, but he wasn’t one to keep the man waiting in the dark for long during these meetings. It was evident by how his whole demeanor seemed to change by what he revealed, that Zenos was beyond eager to set out with the information Moreau had still yet to hand him. In the momentary silence that lingered between the men, as Zenos rounded the table to seize his blades, the Zephon native stared down into his goblet to consider brief ramifications to the decision he was about to make. Whom would be spared by the Valkyries and the Old Gods when The Devil walked out those doors? Whom was he damning with these words when they were to leave his lips? He shook his head in disappointment, then downed the last of the wine with the last of his self-respect.
”You will find the place amongst the commerce, The Rising Stones, if I’m not mistaken.”
Zenos couldn’t help but chuckle at the name given, a small tug at the corner of his lips. For all our time apart, how little you have changed my friend.
The last bit of gil within his coin pouch was dropped on the table in front of Moreau, whom gave another solemn nod as his black and gold toothed grin took hold of his features. ”To ensure your evening remains sanguine, until our paths cross again.” The metallic crunch of the large man’s steps grew faint as he would leave the tavern, the rain of the storm and chatter of other patrons eventually drowning them out. While Moreau counted the last of the gil, he couldn’t help but hope that he never saw the Garlean again. With a fire now reignited within his breast, Zenos headed north through Torensten, his destination as fixated as his gaze upon a new, brighter future.
[attr="class","crashBody"] Her ochre eyes and copper hair lit by the fire crystal on the table, while the rest of her small frame remained shrouded in a dark corner where she knew not to be bothered. This was nothing like Sonora’s watering holes. It smelt of brine, fish, with ancient energies underfoot. She preferred the clean, modern environment full of vibes to help the drink take hold. Nevertheless, as she sipped her wine, her eyes watched the exchange. They weren’t exactly quiet, hoping to use the crowd as a way to drown out their conversation. [break][break] The parts she did hear intrigued her. His desire was deep and the tones of his voice stated he would travel the ends of the world to achieve them. It ran shivers down her spine. It had been so long since she heard such worth...such strength. [break][break] Ah. The moment was fleeting. He tossed a coin to this informant before exiting the bar. Cissnei left her gil on the table. Quietly, she crossed the bar and exited into the streets. It was impossible to miss the man that stood firm against the storm. She felt the rain soak into her suit and her hair flatten against her face. She ignored it all. [break][break] “Your informant gave poor, vague details for the cost he asked for.” She stood straight and placed the edge of her hand along her chest, before bowing a greeting. “And asked too many questions.” Her eyes flashed up to him. “I’ve much experience in finding and acquiring for others.” No matter the cost to herself, she held true to her word. Though people always had to beware what they wished for around her. Or what they said. Information and using it to the whim of masters was what she thrived in.
The raindrops continued to dance upon this iron worked stage, performing steps upon every delicate feature in their path. They were not heavy enough to drown out a voice that soon approached, and before Zenos was aware he had been hunted from the musty old tavern, they were upon him, formality and all. Were those words as clear and true as they intended to be? He had ceased his march a few yalms from this sleek dressed stranger, whose form became more apparent in the sunlight which threatened to break the storm. Zenos couldn’t help but feel contempt for this newfound news, eyes narrowing as he speculated the performers in this scene upon a fool’s stage. They had both been followed, Moreau having chosen to stick to his own selection of shadows, well enough to warrant an appearance further down the road, from the mouth of a well secluded alley. He had suspected the faux payment would earn him the native’s ire, but it was of little concern by now.
The native sought to close the distance between himself and the pair, soaked boots would tread through the puddles in their path.
”She speaks lies, mon tovar. I merely wished to know where your heart was at! Don’t listen to this siren!”
This girl’s words had given him nothing further to consider about his Torensten contact; Zenos knew the man was a cheat and well versed when it came to the craft of the tongue. An informant among scum had many connections, many avenues to exploit, this was why he was chosen. This web of liars and cowards doubtlessly had already given the garlean’s name and intentions to the local guild masters by now. It was expected, and hoped for, to have sharped claws readied and waiting for when he came to call upon them. Though it was clear by now someone had slipped up, and let this outlander in on the traveling word about him. For why else would she have come?
To bear this information so openly, so readily, there was certainly something she wanted, something that she craved to take such a risk. The desire in that girl’s eyes was too palpable to ignore. Zenos merely stood there as he weighed the merit of these proclamations, Moreau’s pleas falling on deaf ears. An offer remained on the table, an answer had yet to be given. The truth was still questioned, as were this enigma’s credibility. If she were so certain that Moreau had been lying about the location Zenos desired, then there was a purpose to letting him live this long. Did this girl desire proof of his wrath? Did she wish Zenos to see the kill for himself? This much and more raced through his mind, after he was given naught but her word to go on.
The storm would continue to call upon the silence.
”Tovar!”
The cold blues of the garlean would finally break the lengthy stare they had held with Cissnei, snapping toward the theif as he turned with a draw of The Swell. There was a flash of topaz, a flay of crimson into the wet street, and a sharp cry of pain as Moreau felt the loss of his legs. Zenos would strafe several steps about the man like a predator, the blade still held out in a firm manner, as he watched the cripple fail to cope, and cuddle with his newfound wounds. Zenos would scoff at the fallen man, then turn his attention back to the girl, his curiosity once more piqued to uncover the nature of purpose behind those ochre orbs. It was evident enough that informants were replaceable, or rather were the ones whom so easily let their lack of competence be brought to light. So it brought to question, what else was she willing to offer? What else was she willing to sacrifice beyond mere information?
”So, let us test this credibility of yours.”
The Swell was offered for Cisseni to take it. The cold stare into her eyes would resume.
[attr="class","infoNotes"]Cissnei is going to hell
[attr="class","crashLyrics"]Bloodwork
[attr="class","crashBody"] Zenos heeded her and came to a stop. It was clear he was taking in the situation. What she hadn’t expected was this Moreau to reappear from the shadows. It seemed he actually cared about his credibility. He fussed that she spoke lies about him. How rude. [break][break] She preferred to call them half-truths. [break][break] If this man had eyes and ears, he would not have to ask what was in someone’s heart. He could merely perceive it if he was as good as he said. To serve a master and not know their mind. Seemed a very poor way to serve. [break][break] She made no motion and kept an even temper as Moreau argued on his own behalf. She simply kept her gaze connected with Zenos, unabashed and unaffected by the rain that fell. As if it was not worth her effort to argue with someone who did not equal her own talent. Besides, his cries and groveling were now becoming pathetic. [break][break] Then, in a single heartbeat, Zenos acted upon his displeasure. Cissnei did not even flinch as the man lost his legs and tumbled to the cement. The rain was already washing his blood down into the sewers. Her eyes flashed from the injured man, who was quickly going into shock, to Zenos as he spoke to her. She wore a completely placid mask as if the action had not phased her. [break][break] It was part of the risk of the job after all. A risk she had lived with since she was nine years old and initiated into her line of work. Silently, she pulled a handkerchief out of her blazer. With a gracious lowering of her lashes, she wrapped the cloth around the hilt before taking hold of the Swell. It was heavy in her hand. It was not her weapon of choice, but it was her last partner’s. It brought back memories. [break][break] Her boots splashed in the puddles and she looked down at the fearful Moreau. He was laying in a pool of his own blood. The scum of the underworld stuck to the pavement. He must have been too proud and sure of himself to believe he would not one day pay this price. [break][break] She gripped the sword tighter. Moreau’s words brought this upon himself. The moments leading up to this, he tried to convince Zenos to turn on her instead of him. It might have been her lying on the pavement. [break][break] If it had been her lying there, he would have not batted an eyelash at her either. [break][break] Her eyes held that cold killing intent like in her older days of a Turk. Willing to do whatever it takes to fulfill a mission. Or even numbed to the cleanup work after SOLDIERs had left a bloody mess everywhere. [break][break] Besides, he was already dying. This would be a mercy. [break][break] She kicked him roughly in the temple to stun him. Then the blade came down swiftly, straight through the ribs and into his heart. There was a sudden life pulse, then he was snuffed. [break][break] She pulled the sword up, and swiped it to the left to fling off the blood. She found Moreau had his own handkerchief in his back pocket. She took it from him, and slid it down the blade to wipe the remaining blood off. She dropped the dirtied cloth on his face. [break][break] A few steps forward and then she knelt, her eyes lowered again. She held the sword reverently up to Zenos. “Shall I dispose of him too?” There were plenty of fish in the ocean that could finish the job.
Zenos watched on as the sword was taken from him, and observed with a callous silence while the girl wrestled with the weight of the deed. He could see how she shadowed her prey, looked down upon Moreau in a quiet that rivaled his own while the Torensten filth pleaded for his life. There was hesitation, prompting the unnerving passivity of his gaze to finally break as it would narrow. The man was merely bargaining with chips he no longer held, his last ante given with this pathetic attempt to sway the garlean’s favor. The false information was forgivable, there were plenty of others in the city whom would give him what he desired if pressed hard enough. Though this was not the reason Zenos had cut him down. It was the insufferable means by which Moreau sought this favorability, the very means in which he begged like the peasant he aspired not to be. No better than an Eorzean. Had he remained in the tavern, kept to himself, then perhaps he would still be enjoying that soured wine. It made little difference now.
The life was snuffed from the pauper quicker than the wind would douse a candle.
Zenos looked down upon the wound as Cissnei sought to clean The Swell, taking note of how clean the incision had been performed, how unusually masterful of a kill it had been. One might think the woman had done this sort of thing before. The katana’s steel was properly wiped of ichor before it was offered, Zenos taking a brief moment to admire how devout this enigma was to appeasement. The Swell was taken with a firm grasp then returned to its rightful place with a resounding Click! as the scabbard revolver gyrated once, then ceased its churn. Though what to do with the mess this crafty killer had made in the street? The question she provided was of little interest to Zenos, whom simply turned his back on both her and the scene as he started again down the cobblestone.
”Leave him. The crows will have their feast today.”
So, Zenos would leave the scene. The garlean’s path would take him, and the copper topped shadow were she to tail him, to a convergence of three streets where the nearest airtrain station awaited. People would part like a sea upon his approach, allowing Galvus to reach his destination without the hindrance of the populace. As he made motion to hold open a steel gate to ascend the stairs to the station, a group of children playing in the street among the crowds would catch his eye. For but a few moments Zenos observed them, noted how they frolicked about their game with their ball without any cares to the world around them. They seemed happy, merry with their existence, content with their lot in life as they aspired for nothing more than the love of the game.
A thought occurred to him at this display, this example of humanity, this specimen of another existence. Were Garlemald not an instrument of the Ascians, were his very life not a preordained path, Zenos questioned if he were to have become something so weak. If not for his great-grandfather's guiding agenda, would he have become the hunter that prowled these streets today? Would he have subjugated an eikon, multiple provinces, and bent multiple nations to his will? Would fate have still guided him to meet his first and only friend? Would his might still have towered above the gods? These thoughts and more, all within the seconds of a glimpse to a pack of innocence, of mediocrity.
How fragile, how fleeting.
Zenos turned to ascend the stairs in earnest, his focus returned to the metaphoric chessboard which materialized in his mind. A map of Zephon, and upon it, decorated pieces resembling variables he already knew to exist in this world. For those whose locations remained undetermined and unconfirmed, these symbolic miniatures remained off the board, waiting to be placed by Zenos’ subconscious whenever they would enter the hunt. The individuals whom Solus had referred, Caius Dragelion and the enigmatic silver haired man, were placed in Torensten alongside the piece resembling the unsundered Ascian. Their forms shadowed to resemble Zenos’ lack of knowledge regarding their true appearances. Cissnei was added alongside them, at the other end of the city next to the crimson figurine which symbolized the once Crown Prince. An everchanging playing field to accommodate the endless, everchanging stratagems. To place such a map in the real world, in a real location where anyone might spy upon these intricacies, was a foolish notion. It was best to keep these things locked away.
The weight of his steps reached the final step, Zenos would take in the expanse of the city skyline, the wonders that Torensten held to those brave enough to leave the streets. A wondrous testament to the people of this land, a shining gem of trade and commerce, haven to any adventurer looking to find the worth to their salt. As his eyes would close, he began to envision the Imperial City in Garlemald, wreath in flame and destruction as the Populares were slaughtered in the streets and residences they once called home. The echoing memories of their screams and pleads filled the silence of the reverie, bringing about the faintest colors of nostalgia to his heart, for a world that for the time being had been spared his wrath. The garlean took in a deep breath as the air train would approach, completing its brief docking procedure before the doors would grant passage to the airborne ferry. Gil promised to Moreau was offered for the fee in a dismissive manner, Zenos caring not whether the tenant was sharp enough to catch the coins.
”Where ya headed?”
”Legend Square.”
With a lurch once the passengers were onboard, the train would ascend over the skyline.
[attr="class","crashBody"] The man did nothing but glance on to see what she would do. Then, as the sword was returned, he simply said to leave the man to the crows. She braved a glance up to watch as he simply turned away, the rain dancing off his armor and flattening his hair. His interest in the situation appeared to be lost. His footfalls retained their previous path, as if he was undisturbed by such a random act of murder. He’s done this before. Even more so, he revelled in such bloodshed, enough so that this display was not merely enough to pique his interest. Not even enough for a proper introduction with him. [break][break] What made her more curious, however, was his simple ending of the conversation. He did not seek her information that she claimed to have over the man she just killed. He did not ask for her assistance in furthering his agenda. He did not even bother to utter a sigh of satisfaction. [break][break] It gave her no reason to currently follow him. She stood up and smoothed out the rough spots where her knees had touched the pavement. She kicked the severed limbs into the gutter for the rats to feast on in the sewers. Then, she decided to not leave the man for the crows. It would be better to clean up the mess left behind in the rocky crags of the waterside cliff before. The fishes could use a bit of feeding. [break][break] She had grown used to those in power miscalculating the enemy due to their overconfidence in their own abilities and their under-estimation of their opponents. She would prefer not to cause a disturbance and cover one’s steps. At least, until one’s mission objectives were already at hand. She did what she did best and cleaned up the dirty laundry.
